


Stay

by shadowsamurai



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 04:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsamurai/pseuds/shadowsamurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A difficult case leads Holmes request a single thing from Watson: stay. But Watson also needs the same from Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I'm just borrowing things for a while and I promise I'll put everything back exactly how I found it when I've finished. Well, almost exactly how I found it. ;)

SH-JW-SH-JW-SH-JW

"Stay."

Just a single word, spoken barely above a whisper, so quiet that I could not quite believe I had heard it at first. I realised straight away that Holmes had been through an ordeal, and even he, the greatest thinking machine alive, the most celebrated amateur detective, could only take so much in the realm of emotional and physical pain. I must admit that I myself was not sporting a perfectly clean bill of health. In fact, if I was subjected to a physical by any of my old army friends now, I would fail rather dramatically. But Holmes had suffered worse and it was because of me, or rather, because of his stubborn refusal to leave me. He could have returned with the police in a short space of time, and I would not have been much worse for wear, but he rejected the idea with such force, I was stunned. And as I was already too weak to argue, Holmes stayed. Even now, with the warmth of the house infusing me, helping the work the brandy started earlier, the shadows of our ordeal are lingering, and only now, when everything is still and quiet, do I realise how close we both came to dying.

I wonder if the same though has crossed Holmes' mind. I wonder if that is why he made such an unusual request; from anyone else, it would have seemed acceptable, if not commonplace, but with Holmes…. I cannot help but wonder what has invoked such a thing.

"Watson…John…."

The voice is cracked and hoarse, and I can almost feel the pain Holmes is enduring. Yet I am unable to move or speak as he shocks me once again into stillness. Memories of our brief time spent in capture flood my mind, the smell of blood and sweat lingering in my nostrils as the sounds of cries fill my ears. During my time spent with the army, I came across many men who had been tortured and I was witness to their many gruesome injuries, but never have I been in the position myself. Until now. A short space of time, a few hours at the most, yet the scars will never go, the physical as well as the mental.

I was the bait to lure Holmes into a trap, and it worked perfectly. Even though I tried to tell him that at the time, he refused to listen; he insisted upon staying with me, even though that would put us both in more danger than we were already. It was only by a stroke of luck that we were found by the police before either of us were crippled or worse, killed. Our attacker focused on my old injuries - the leg and the shoulder primarily - but he also decided that my fingers were easy targets. He had broken three before Holmes found me, and luckily, no more of my digits suffered. But Holmes…. I cannot even describe the horrors inflicted on him, as speaking the words out loud would confirm the reality of what happened, and the memory is more than enough for me to be dealing with at the moment. Although when we returned to Baker Street not an hour ago - Holmes refused any sort of professional treatment, stating a good night's rest was all he need to heal him - I insisted on bathing and bandaging his wounds. I myself could barely stand, but after we had just been thought, after what Holmes had done for me, giving him medical aid was the very least I could do.

Once he was cleaned and his injuries bound and covered, I helped him into bed. I stayed for a while, making sure he was comfortable and that he actually went to sleep, and that was how I came to hear what was spoken. Holmes' eyes were shut, but he knew I was still there. How, I do not know, but he was aware of my presence, certainly; evidence of that came when I spoke my name. But now I fear I have spent too much time thinking to give him the comfort he was seeking, for as I rouse myself from my somewhat maudlin reverie, I see that Holmes' face has relaxed somewhat and his mouth is open slightly, sure signs he is asleep. Although with Holmes, one can never be sure. But whether he is really asleep or not, it does not matter; he is peaceful and that is the most important thing.

I stand and stare at him for a moment, though why I do I am unsure. Perhaps I am just reassuring myself that he is alive and still with me. Perhaps I am mulling over his earlier words, now wondering whether I actually heard him correctly or not. Perhaps I am simply deciding whether it really matters or not. As I shift my stance, I realise I'm a stiff as a corpse, and I probably look as beautiful as one, so with some reluctance I cannot explain, I turn and trudge wearily up the stairs to my own room, the journey taking far longer than it ought to. I remember sitting on my bed, and then I must have fallen asleep.

Some time later - I do not know how long - I awoke suddenly. I was underneath the covers of my bed, though I have no recollection of how I got there. Then I become aware of a weight on my mattress other than my own.

"Holmes?" I ask.

"Of course, dear chap. Were you expecting someone else?"

His tone is flippant, harsh if you do not know the man well, and to anyone else, Holmes' recovery would seem miraculous. But to me, a trusted friend as well as a doctor, I can tell his words are pure fakery.

"Holmes, you should be resting."

"I was, until some inconsiderate fellow woke me with his shouting," Holmes replies, and now I detect a hint of seriousness shining through.

"Sorry. I must have been dreaming," I say.

"It sounded more like a nightmare to me, Watson." Holmes hesitates uncharacteristically. "Is it something you would like to share with me?"

I can only make out his profile in the dim light, but it is more than enough. I could tell Holmes' expression on a dark night with only the starlight to help me. I choose my words carefully, knowing what fine line we are treading now. Holmes and I have always been an almost perfect balance; he is withdrawn, almost cold and clinical, while I am open and quite emotional at times. But now, that distinction between our personalities has been blurred. I can see a tear in Holmes' self control, and all his emotions are flickering across his face like a candle flame caught in a sharp breeze. But I…I am trying to push my feelings into a box and leave them there, even though I know suppressing them will do me no good.

"Watson?"

Holmes' voice reminds me I have not spoken for a while and that his question still needs an answer. "After all we have just been through, Holmes, is it really necessary to explain my nightmares to you?"

Pain lances Holmes' sharp features. "I understand."

And for once, I believe that he actually does. "You should rest, Holmes. You will never recover otherwise," I tell him as firmly as I can manage.

"And you need to sleep as well, Doctor, so I shall bid you good evening."

Before Holmes' has fully risen, some unknown impulse compelled me to move, and though my body protested loudly at the sudden movement, I reach out and grab his wrist carefully.

"Stay," I say to him quietly. I should have paid more attention earlier when Holmes asked me the same thing; if he had been feeling only a part of what I am feeling now, I had denied him something greatly important.

Holmes half turns. "Watson, I do not think…."

I know what he is going to say. It is no appropriate. We both need to rest. He is not comfortable with any sort of closeness with anyone. But right now, I do not care about anything. I shake my head. "For once, Holmes, do not think! Just…be, man. Please."

I can see Holmes is wrestling with the notion, wondering whether he can allow his guard down, even with me. I try to think of a way to put his mind at ease but sleep is coming upon me quickly now.

"If you stay, at least you won't have far to go to wake me when I have another nightmare," I say, somewhat quickly. "And if you are here, I may not suffer a nightmare at all."

Slowly, Holmes sits back down and then he moves until he is lying flush against my side, on the top of the bed covers. "I never quite realised how many steps led to your room, Watson," he remarks dryly. "I will stay, but only because those stairs are most inconvenient to traverse at this time of night."

It is the closest thing to acceptance or even humour that Holmes will ever show, but it makes me smile nonetheless. As my eyes drift shut, I am aware that I still have hold of his wrist, although it feels slightly different than it should. And as sleep takes me, I realise Holmes has shifted his hand, lacing his fingers with mine. The knowledge that even a man like Holmes can give and accept such comfort fills me with a sense of contentment and the last sound I hear is a soft sigh echoing my thoughts, although whether it comes from me or Holmes, I cannot say for certain. But now, I think, it does not matter.

FIN


End file.
